Chapter 3

ASHIF STANDS AT THE front of the executive boardroom on the fifty-ninth floor of his company’s Canadian head office in downtown Toronto. The room is a wall of windows, like a glass box suspended thousands of feet in the air. He has one hand tucked into the pants pocket of his British-cut, single-breasted, navy blue suit that fits his tall, slim body perfectly, and the other rests on the podium next to him. He’s clean-shaven and his curly dark hair is smoothly combed back with the exception of a small, stubborn curl that refuses to cooperate despite the different products he used this morning, as he does every morning, to try to force it down.

At the back of the boardroom, on a skirted table, are several white carafes, a glass bowl filled with melting ice and a few bottles of juice, and two silver platters, one with a lone muffin. The executive team sits on plump, black leather chairs around the oval boardroom table. Cups of coffee marked with a soaring blue falcon, the company logo, sit in front of each of them. They listen carefully, some taking copious notes, as Ashif explains his division’s numbers.

He puts the next slide of his presentation, prepared by his assistant, on the overhead projector that’s perched on a wheeled cart. A colourful chart filled with numbers appears on the white screen behind him. The chart is titled SALES FORECAST & BUDGET, and has labels like SALES VOLUME, PROFIT MARGIN, and GROWTH. The numbers are further broken down into years, quarters, and months. It’s crucial to ensure period-over-period growth, a constant movement upward, like an endless escalator. That’s what the company counts on, what shareholders expect, and what Ashif’s job, like all sales jobs, is based on—delivering bigger and better numbers each and every quarter.

At the end of his presentation, the team congratulates him on a job well done and approves his budget. Rick beams in the background not only because Ashif achieved their goal, but also because he will, Ashif knows, get marks for mentoring and coaching him well—one of the eight key success factors that all senior managers and executives are tracked on for their performance reviews. Ken, the vice-president of finance, pats Ashif on his back. “Terrific presentation, kid. You’re right on track.” Glenda, the vice-president of marketing, shakes his hand firmly. “Nice work, Ash. We knew we made a good decision with you.” She’s the only woman on the executive team and is often dressed in pantsuits. “I bet she’s got a pair of fucking balls under there, too,” Rick had said in hushed tones to a group of men after she hit yet another home run at the annual company baseball tournament. Everyone laughed, Ashif included, even though he didn’t find it funny.

Rick walks Ashif out. The executive lobby is a lush room with wood panelling, deep leather couches, and walls lined with perfectly hung portraits, like at a museum, of the company’s past CEOs. Old white men in dark suits. Every single one.